Games People Play
by Evergreene
Summary: Legolas is rather puzzled by the behaviour of the hobbits. Aragorn does not help. It's a long walk to Mordor...
1. Tig

**Disclaimer: I wished I may, I wished I might, own these characters I wrote of tonight (or morning as the case may be). Sadly, it didn't work. They're Tolkien's.**

**Additional disclaimer: 'Tig' is the property of Elijah Wood, Dominic Monaghan, Billy Boyd and Sean Astin.**

**This story was inspired by the extra features on the extended 'Fellowship of the Ring' dvd and is for anyone who has sat through the highly entertaining actors' commentary. Enjoy!**

**Summary: Legolas is rather puzzled by the behaviour of the hobbits. Aragorn does not help. It's a long walk to Mordor…**

**Games People Play**

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**Chapter 1: Tig**

"What are they doing?"

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, glanced up from where he sat cleaning his sword to see Legolas, prince of Mirkwood, leaning back against a nearby tree, arms folded and gaze fixed on something just within the rough boundaries of their temporary campsite.

"Pardon?"

Legolas gestured eastwards with a slender motion. "The _periannath_. What are they doing?"

Aragorn looked in the direction which the elf had indicated to see the hobbit cousins, Merry and Pippin, running around seemingly without point or purpose. Occasionally a shout would ring out and the two would reverse direction and come scurrying back the other way. The ranger glanced up at his elven friend and shrugged. "Playing," he replied in answer to the elf's question.

"Playing?" Legolas echoed, eyes leaving the energetic cousins for a brief moment to focus on the ranger.

"Aye."

"And _what_ are they playing precisely?"

"A game," the man answered simply, returning his attention to his sword.

Legolas frowned. "Aragorn, you realise that you are not helping."

The ranger smirked. "I am not trying to."

Giving up on his infuriating friend, the elf turned to survey the rest of the fellowship where they sat distributed throughout the campsite. His gaze settled on the back of the wizard, Gandalf, who was resting on a broken tree trunk chewing on the long stem of his pipe, blue-grey eyes fastened intently on the playing hobbits. The soft wind which ruffled through the camp every now and again brought to Legolas the smoky but distinct bite of the hobbits' leaf as it curled and blackened in the wizard's pipe- a scent which lingered around far too many members of the fellowship for the elf's liking. Yet Legolas allowed himself only one swift, disapproving glance at the thick grey haze that was emerging from the wooden bowl, deciding that any comment about the foulness of the habit at that particular time would likely do nothing more but place the answers he sought in jeopardy. With a few silent steps the prince moved so he stood just behind Gandalf's cloaked form, which was huddled against the cool evening breeze. Yet before he could even open his mouth to inquire as to what it was that the hobbits were doing, the Maia opened his.

"Do not think to ask a mere _wizard_ about the antics of those hobbits," the Istari grumbled without looking up. "For those two are more of a puzzle than all the mysteries buried in the deepest caverns of Middle Earth put together." The robed figure subsided into brooding silence once more, leaving a perplexed elf prince to stare at the hunched grey form in bewilderment.

Legolas eyed the wizard for a long moment, during which the grey smoke rings which rose from above the bent figure's head seemed to increase both in number and intensity. Finally, he stepped away and glanced once more around the area which he, Gandalf and Aragorn had chosen for that night's camp. His blue eyes darted over the remaining members of the fellowship as he examined each in turn.

The dwarf had perched himself on a large boulder almost twice his size. However, thought the elf silently, such a comparison said little for the size of the boulder. The barest hint of a smirk crept over the ethereal being's pale face as he watched the son of Gloin, who, like the wizard, was huffing away on a pipe. Legolas' smirk deepened as the dwarf cast a quick, suspicious glance in his direction, one clearly intended to be far less conspicuous than it was to the elf's sharp eyes. Of course, thought Legolas with no small sense of regret, the dwarf's suspicions were completely unfounded. After all, it had not been his fault that the dwarf's pack had somehow found its way onto a rather high tree branch the previous night. Moreover, it certainly was not his fault that he, the only wood-elf in the company, had been absent scouting when the dwarf realised its whereabouts, meaning that Aragorn had had to climb up the uncommonly smooth, not to mention narrow, tree in order to retrieve it.

A glint appeared in Legolas' eyes as the memory of a dark night in Rivendell came to him as clear as the event itself, when beings of many races had gathered before a dancing fire that lit a great hall, when a son of Thranduil had triumphed over a son of Gloin.+ The glint in the blue eyes developed into a merry gleam of mischief as the elf wondered curiously whether such victory could be achieved again with as little difficulty as the first occasion. Certain that it could, he fixed a calm gaze on the dwarf's blocky form, and made sure to catch the other's eyes when he next glanced over.

Gimli jumped slightly as cold blue eyes met his. He looked away hurriedly, fixing his gaze on a handy bush a few feet distant. After some minutes had passed, he glanced over again only to see the icy orbs of the elf still focused intently upon him. Unnerved he looked away again, for longer this time, then back to meet the same impenetrable stare. His anger mounting rapidly, Gimli levered himself off of his boulder and marched across the campsite to where the elf stood watching him, determined to put a stop to the nonsense once and for all.

"What do you think you're doing, elf?" he demanded loudly, so loudly in fact that the heads of the rest of the fellowship turned in unison towards the two mismatched figures. Even Merry and Pippin stopped their game for a moment to stare at them curiously. Gimli blinked, realising what he had done, then squared his shoulders, forcefully ignoring the developing grins on the faces of all those around him. All of them, that was, except for the elf, who was looking at him questioningly with an innocent expression on his fair features.

"Why, whatever do you mean, Master Dwarf?" the elf asked politely, blue eyes widening slightly.

Gimli puffed up his chest angrily. How dare the elf pretend he was innocent! "You know very well what you were doing," he growled roughly, taking a short step forward and glaring up at the twig-like creature furiously. "And if you don't stop it of your own accord, my axe will be only too happy to assist you!"

The elf glanced round at the rest of the company as though asking for support against the obviously mad dwarf who was threatening him. "I am sorry," he replied, his expression troubled. "It was not my intention to offend you. I was doing nothing more but simply standing here."

Aragorn snorted to himself quietly. Even if he hadn't seen the elven prince staring intently at the dwarf for some minutes, the very fact that Legolas was not affronted by the dwarf's accusations but was instead protesting his innocence suggested to him that the elf was somewhat guiltier than he claimed. Yet the ranger chose not to intervene and instead stayed seated, deciding to let them fight this one out for themselves, or at least let someone else take the responsibility for once of keeping peace amongst the various members of the fellowship. Besides, he reasoned, the past few days had been rather monotonous as the company continued their long march to Mordor and to be honest, he rather enjoyed the amusement that the frequent fights between elf and dwarf provided.

Affairs were advancing little further as the dwarf continued his declarations that the elf had been purposefully provoking him and the elf continued to protest his open-eyed innocence. Finally, just as Aragorn was getting properly into the rhythm of the debate, the deep rumble of Gandalf brought it to an abrupt halt.

"Master Gimli." The wizard's voice was calm but had an iron edge which, Aragorn well knew, indicated danger. "As this debate seems to be going nowhere fast, perhaps you will tell us what it was that Prince Legolas was doing?"

The dwarf did not respond immediately and the wizard raised his eyebrows.

"He was looking at me," came the muttered words.

Bushy eyebrows rose even further. "He was looking at you."

Gimli shuffled his feet, unwilling to meet the wizard's eyes. "Well, it wasn't so much what he was doing, it was how he was doing it!" he blustered suddenly.

"Indeed." The wizard's sharp eyes rested on the innocent-eyed son of Thranduil then fell back onto the red-faced dwarf. "If it does not inconvenience you, Master Gimli, I would appreciate it if you would not make up excuses to get into another of those childish disputes which you and the prince insist on having. Instead, might I suggest that you put your attentions to something that is more productive. Getting some rest for example, so that you will be ready for tomorrow's march."

His expression fighting between fury and incredulity, Gimli stared flabbergasted at the back of the wizard, who had turned back to his pipe. However, when no response was imminent he instead cast a stony-eyed glare at the prince of Mirkwood, who flashed a swift, triumphant smirk at him before his face returned to its usual serene calm. Angrily, Gimli stomped over to Aragorn who was now sharpening his sword with a whetstone, knowing that the ranger would put a stop to any more of the elf's behaviour if only to keep peace amongst the fellowship.

Legolas sighed softly as the dwarf lowered himself down next to Aragorn, knowing full well what the short creature was doing. He debated with himself about trying for yet another victory yet at a sharp look from Gandalf he quickly decided to wait for a more suitable time. At that momenta loud yelp from Pippin caught his attention and he turned his thoughts to the problem at hand, figuring out what it was that the hobbits were doing.

Reasoning that the other _periannath_ in the party were the most likely to be able to explain what their kinsmen were doing, he turned his gaze to Frodo and Sam. The two friends were sitting a little way off next to the small campfire over which one of Sam's kettles was boiling merrily. They too were watching the pair, laughing occasionally at the more humorous antics of the two cousins. As the sound of Frodo's laugh rang out over the camp, Legolas decided at once not to disturb them as the merry sound was becoming all too rare as the fellowship drew closer to Mordor.

Instead, Legolas turned his attention to the only other human in the party apart from Aragorn, Lord Boromir of Gondor. The man sat a little removed from the rest of the fellowship, his shield and pack laid neatly behind him to rest against a tree. A broad smile was on his bearded face as he watched the two hobbits playing, yet the smile soon faded into a look of concern as the cousins drew near him and began to use his broad figure as an object to shelter behind.

Deciding to wait and see how the situation played itself out, Legolas wandered back over to Aragorn and folded himself to the ground, happily observing that the dwarf had risen at his approach, stomping over to the protection which Gandalf provided. With a look at the elf that was tinted with amusement, Aragorn rummaged abut in his pack and drew out another whetstone, flipping it to his friend. Reaching behind his head, Legolas drew out one of his long knives and ran the stone carefully down its edge, honing the blade to a sharp keenness. When he next glanced over at the cousins, he was amused to see that their game had progressed to the stage where they were alternately pleading and ordering the man of Gondor to join them in their game, for, they claimed, three was a crowd and therefore much more fun than only two. Boromir was looking around the fellowship for support, yet there was none to be found. Indeed, Aragorn was grinning openly at him, enjoying the chance to see a member of the party apart from himself in strife with the hobbits for once.

"Come on, Boromir," Merry was saying. "It'll be fun!"

"He's right, you know," added Pippin, nodding his curly head earnestly. "For once."

Merry turned to face his cousin with a frown. "And what's that supposed to mean exactly?" he accused.

"Well," began Pippin after a moment's quick thought, "What I meant was-"

As the two hobbits began to argue, Boromir leant back against his tree with a relieved sigh, throwing a triumphant glance at Aragorn who merely shrugged and returned to his sword, a knowing smile upon his face. Sure enough, after little more than a minute's furious discussion over what exactly it was that Pippin had meant, the two cousins returned once more to persuading the Gondorian to join them in their game.

The warrior looked pleadingly at Aragorn for a second time yet the ranger pointedly ignored him. By this time Merry and Pippin had each seized a strong arm and were attempting to tug the man to his feet. Finally Boromir relented with a laugh.

"Very well, master hobbits," he chuckled. "I shall join you as long as you promise to leave me in peace after our game."

"On our word as hobbits of the Shire," Merry promised solemnly. At the man's nod, the two cousins cheered and eagerly began to explain the various rules and regulations which governed their game. His curiosity once again awakened, Legolas sheathed his knife and rose to his feet in one fluid movement. Aware that he would likely be dragged into the game if he approached too closely, he innocently wandered a few steps nearer and came to a halt by a nearby tree. Leaning back against it so that he was half-hidden from the hobbits' sight, he tried to make sense of the confusing two-sided conversation.

Legolas recognised the game as similar to one that elflings played in Mirkwood. The aim was for one person, who was 'It', to catch the other person and touch, or 'tig', him. It was then the 'tigged' person's turn to chase after the other players in order to do the same to them. Yet, he reflected silently, this version of the hobbits' seemed to be far more complicated than the one that he had played as a child. The lengthy, not to mention confusing, explanation seemed to be too quick for Boromir also, who looked rather dubious as he took his position on the makeshift playing field and the game began.

It was only seconds before play halted and the two hobbits turned to Boromir as one.

"You can't tig on a tog, Boromir," explained Pippin patiently. "It's not allowed."

The warrior nodded slowly. "My apologies, little ones. Perhaps if we begin again?"

The hobbits nodded and turned away to take up their positions. Aragorn, the only member of the fellowship in a position to see their faces, noticed that the cousins exchanged a quick grin before turning back to the Gondorian.

Play resumed only to be interrupted a few moments later by another cry of protest from the hobbits.

"I do not seem to be very good at this game," remarked Boromir to no one in particular.

"You'll get the hang of it soon," said Merry encouragingly and with a quick wink at Pippin that only Aragorn witnessed.

Boromir nodded uncertainly and sure enough another cry echoed throughout the camp seconds later.

"No, Boromir!" exclaimed Merry. "You can't double tig a tag!"

The Gondorian halted abruptly and turned to the two innocent-eyed hobbits with a suspicious look on his face. "Remind me, what is a 'tag' precisely?"

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other simultaneously and exchanged a long-suffering sigh.

"We _told _you already, Boromir," Merry reminded him.

The Gondorian looked to Aragorn once again for support, but the ranger merely nodded in confirmation of the hobbit's words. "He speaks the truth, Master Boromir. Merry and Pippin explained their rules before the game began."

The warrior grunted, casting a dark glare at the ranger. "It seems that I was the only one who missed them," he muttered under his breath.

"Aye," Aragorn responded happily, his sharp ears easily catching the man's words. "It seems as though you were." He returned to his sword, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

Once more the game resumed and once more it was interrupted by a shout from one of the hobbits. "Boromir, you can't tag a tog! Now you have to do an Oliphaunt impression!"

Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, came to an abrupt halt. He stared at Merry in disbelief. "I beg your pardon?"

"You have to do an Oliphaunt impression." repeated the hobbit more slowly. "Because you tagged a tog."

The man gave a rather stunned yet determined shake of his head. "I am not going to impersonate an Oliphaunt," he stated firmly.

"It's easy," replied Pippin brightly and he let out a strange sort of trumpeting snort which sent a few birds fluttering from nearby trees.

Merry eyed him, impressed. "Nice one, Pip."

"Why, thank you, Merry. Now you try, Boromir."

"I cannot."

Seeing the look of disbelief mixed with sheer stubbornness that was fixed on the Gondorian's face, Gimli let out a loud snort of laughter, only to have Merry eye him appreciatively, much as he had Pippin. "There, see?" he said to Boromir. "Gimli can do it!"

Peals of laughter from the watching elf rang out over the camp as Gimli stared open-mouthed at the two hobbits. The shoulders of the ranger, who was still huddled over his sword, were shaking slightly as the man struggled to hide his laughter. Even Gandalf's mouth was twitching as he stared steadfastly at the fire, still chewing on his pipe. With a muttered oath, Gimli jumped heavily to his feet and stomped off into the surrounding trees, grumbling something about firewood. Merry and Pippin watched him go with identical expressions of confusion on their faces, then they turned back to Boromir simultaneously.

"Please, Boromir?"

"It's part of the game!"

"That's quite enough for now, Master Hobbits." The gruff voice of Gandalf interrupted the hobbits' cajoling voices and they turned to stare at him in annoyance. "I need this particular son of the steward to have a scout around and ensure the safety of our camp tonight."

"But Gandalf-"

"No, Master Meriadoc."

"You can't just-"

"I already have, Peregrin Took."

Boromir gave the wizard such a grateful look that Gandalf could not help but think that maybe it had been slightly cruel to have waited so long to intervene. The hobbits, however, were eying him suspiciously.

"I thought that Strider or Legolas usually scouted at night," began Pippin and the rough voice of the ranger cut in smoothly.

"I shall be only too happy to relieve Boromir of his duty tonight, in order that he and the hobbits may finish their game," Aragorn said, and he began to get up from where he sat.

Boromir threw the smirking ranger such a dark look that Gandalf resolved to keep an eye on the two of them that night. He did not want to be responsible for the death of the heir to Gondor's throne, even indirectly, particularly if it was the son of the guardian of the throne who killed said heir. "Although I appreciate the offer, Master Ranger," he countered dryly, "I believe that it is Boromir's responsibility this evening. Both you and Legolas take on that duty far too often."

About to protest, Aragorn was subjected to such a glare from the wizard that he quietened immediately and sank back down to the ground. Boromir, with an expression of complete relief on his face, disappeared into the melting darkness to make a wide circle around the camp in order to ensure that there were no unwanted visitors anywhere near.

As darkness fell Gandalf called an end to the hobbits' game. Merry and Pippin threw themselves down, panting, near to where Frodo and Sam had unrolled their own blankets. A good while after the hobbits had fallen asleep Boromir returned to camp, yet he seemed wary of being drawn into any discussion for he settled down almost immediately after bidding a quick goodnight to his companions.

Aragorn, not ready for sleep just yet, settled down on the fallen tree which Gandalf had vacated and drew his cloak about him to ward off the chill of the deepening night. Becoming aware of a presence behind him, he shifted along the log, allowing the elf room to sit down.

Firelight danced lightly over the pale face of the prince of Mirkwood as he watched the flames leaping and twirling among the charred wood. "Sometimes I do not understand the _periannath_."

"Few people do," replied Aragorn. "And I have good reason to believe that these particular hobbits whom we are travelling with are somewhat harder to understand than most."

The crackling of the fire interspersed with the regular snores of the sleeping dwarf were the only sounds which could be heard as an easy silence fell between the two friends. As he reached forward to throw another branch on the flickering flames from the pile which Gimli had dumped next to him, Aragorn reflected with a strange kind of sadness that this was likely to be one of the last times in which he would sit in this situation, his best friend close by him as they aimlessly watched firewood blacken and burn. He knew that whatever came of the quest, such treasured times were becoming all too rare.

The elf's mind however, appeared to be on other matters as he continued his musings about the hobbits. "They often act as children would," continued Legolas thoughtfully. "Yet they volunteered for this quest when no obligation lay upon them to do so, knowing of the dangers they would face. Well," he added upon reflection of his words, "most of them knew."

A smile drew at the corners of the ranger's mouth as he reached into his pocket to draw out his pipe. Legolas eyed it disapprovingly yet Aragorn ignored him with an ease born of practice, reaching into another pocket and bringing out a small pouch of leaf.

"You lived on the borders of the Shire for some years, did you not?" questioned the elf, with a sidelong glance at the ranger next to him. "Surely you must have gained some knowledge of these creatures."

"Knowledge, yes. Understanding, no," the ranger replied, taking his time in packing the small wooden bowl before him. "I can tell you of their favourite foods, of their fondness for pipeweed and merrymaking, but as for how their minds work? Nay. Even Gandalf, who has studied them, if you can call it that, for a number of years, does not claim to fully understand the Shirefolk." Finally satisfied with his work, Aragorn reached towards the fire and, drawing out a small burning twig, used it to light his pipe. After a couple of experimental puffs, he settled back with a satisfied sigh and continued. "He told me once that no matter how long a time you spend with hobbits, in one moment they can surprise you and make you think that you never knew anything about them at all."

Legolas nodded slowly, watching the smoke that was beginning to rise out of the ranger's pipe distastefully. "They are strange folk," he murmured. "Merry, but strange."

"This coming from an elf?"

Legolas turned to see the shadowed face of his friend lit by a grin. Not deigning to reply, the elf instead gestured to the pipe held loosely in the man's hand. "I do not know how you can do that," he said, changing the topic abruptly. "You are aware that it is one of the foulest habits in all of Middle Earth?"

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, _mellon nin_," the ranger replied easily, drawing on his pipe once more. "It is an art."

"It smells."

"Aye, and most find the aroma very pleasant and soothing, whether they be hobbit, Istari or dwarf."

"My apologies, I did not realise. If the dwarves do it, it must be enjoyable."

"Mockery does not suit you, Legolas," the ranger replied offhandedly.

"Stop smoking and I will mock you less."

"You know as well as I do, _mellon nin_, that neither of those will ever happen." Aragorn smirked as the elf sent a daggered glare his way and settled back to enjoy his pipe. With a sigh Legolas rose smoothly to his feet, cuffing the ranger lightly on the back of the head as he did so. "I will see you in the morning, human."

"_Quel_ _du_, _mellon nin_."

The elf moved away, swiftly scaling nearby tree, and Aragorn smiled to himself as he watched the dimly glowing form of his friend settle down amongst the branches. Knowing that Legolas would keep watch that night, Aragorn took his time finishing his pipe before moving off of his log and lying down near Frodo.

The hobbit's blue eyes opened as Aragorn approached and the ranger nodded gently to the ringbearer. "Go to sleep, Frodo."

The hobbit nodded and closed his eyes once more, hoping that he would fall more easily into sleep than he had the past few nights. Once again however, his thoughts strayed towards the gold ring which clung to a chain round his neck. Unconsciously, his fingers moved to close around it, yet they dropped away quickly as the ranger's voice rumbled into the darkness, clearing away the shadows with its sound.

"Frodo?"

"Yes, Strider?"

"That game which Merry and Pippin were playing…"

"Yes?"

"Is that a real game?"

Frodo paused. "That rather depends on whom you ask," he replied carefully.

"And if I were to ask anyone but Merry and Pippin?"

"Then the answer would probably be no."

"Ah. Thank you, Frodo." The ranger settled down, wrapping a light blanket over himself as he pulled his pack towards him to use as a headrest.

"You're welcome, Strider." Frodo closed his eyes for the final time that night and quickly dropped into a welcome sleep.

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**_periannath_- hobbits**

**_Mellon nin_- my friend**

**_Quel_ _du_- rest well**

**+refers to my other story, "In Imladris"**

**A/N: My apologies to any pipe smokers out there if anything that Aragorn did was incorrect! I do not smoke and though I did look into how to smoke a pipe, it seemed rather involved for this story so I simplified it somewhat. (For the record, this author does not endorse smoking in any way, shape or form hehe!)**

**Next Chapter: Aragorn and Legolas become rather competitive over a simple game of catch.**

**Thanks for reading everyone! Hope you enjoyed it and please review!**


	2. Catch 22

**Disclaimer: It owns me. **

**A/N: Hey everyone! (ducks to avoid flying objects) Um, I really do apologise for the amount of time it has taken me to post this second chapter of 'Games,' but for reasons far beyond my limited knowledge, it simply refused to be written. I've laboured for many, many hours trying to put this together, so I'm really hoping that you like the result. And thank you all so much for the lovely reviews and pointed hints to get on with this chapter:)**

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**Catch-22**

Tales of the Firstborn have traversed Middle-earth for centuries, stretching wide from the eastern coasts of Lindon to the western plains of Rhun, lingering back to the very dawning of the days. Legends of their cunning, their skills in battle, of the unearthly luck which seems to attach itself to those few humans fortunate enough to befriend one of Elf kind, have passed from father to son, mother to daughter, and friend to friend, following elves wherever they go and racing ahead like wildfire to places they may someday be.

Stories tell of an elf appearing one night in a sleeping village, yet disappearing before the morning sun had edged above the horizon, leaving nothing but the scent of a lush, green valley in his wake. They tell of a group of humans, travellers, stumbling upon a band of elves gathered in a small glade as dusk fell about them, their shadows gleaming against the dark forest floor as they leapt and laced over fallen leaves, leaving the green shoots of spring simmering beneath hazy earth. The owner of an inn near the seldom-visited Shire speaks often of a man so like to an elf that he is a mystery to those who claim to know him, yet is still too solid, too real, to be a true member of the Firstborn.

The men of Laketown, whose houses stand not far from the heavy boughs of Mirkwood, weave tales of a silver-quick archer whose bow sings as he moves into battle against the encroaching evil from the south, whose knives flash as he makes a swift kill against any creature under Sauron's sway. He is a prince among elves, they avow, a hero amongst heroes, always fighting to push back the shadowy tendrils that creep under the eaves of his very home. He is dangerous, they caution, unyielding in battle, too fast to pin and too quick to dodge. Yet they also speak of a quick smile which lightens the hearts of his men and all those around him, warming both man and elf to their very core.

There is one man, a grey-cloaked wanderer whose thick beard hangs low on his chest, bushy eyebrows pushing past the brim of his hat, who sometimes tells children gathered round him about a slow-burning campfire housed on a village green, that the two, the elf-like man and the warrior-prince, have been known to travel together. He weaves stories of their adventures, of their narrow escapes, of a friendship too deep to imagine. He tells of foolish mistakes and deadly dangers, his eyes sparkling with mischief and perhaps a hint of remembrance.

The adults who stand around their children murmur to each other that the stories are nonsense, that no such beings exist. Still, it is rare that they move away from the close-knit circle, and have been known to hush their offspring when the excited whispers become too loud. The children, for their part, beg and plead for the old man to tell them more, to reveal the names of the two great friends, yet each and every time he shakes his head with a sparkle in his eyes, always stopping in his tales before they leave more than the vaguest imprint of a friendship that would outlast the ages in the heads and hearts of all the villagers. Then the old man would disappear, sometimes not coming back until the children had become parents themselves, and sometimes not coming back at all.

The stories of the two friends always lingered, however, as whispers through the night, as a breath of adventure, a reminder that there was good in the world, in spite of the growing shadow. No facts, no truths, no names, were ever recorded or even defined, only stories, tales and legends fit for a prince of the elves, or even, some say, for a king of a broken kingdom.

A select and fortunate few of the inhabitants of Middle-earth, however, know that these stories, whilst often embellished, are grounded in truth, for there does in fact exist a great friendship between a man and one of elf-kind, a friendship which breaks all bounds, stretching beyond the changing of the seasons. Even fewer are aware that at the Council of Elrond, held in the elven sanctuary of Imladris, it was decided the two friends should accompany a courageous hobbit to a monstrous land to destroy a small golden ring which threatened all of Middle-earth. The tale goes that the two departed from the green valley, and set out with a wizard, four hobbits, another man and a dwarf, and went on to journey through hardships which would have defeated lesser beings, until at last Middle-earth was safe in peace once more.

Yet that is getting too far ahead in time, for this particular story begins when the renowned fellowship which accompanied the golden ring had only just completed the first leg of their long journey as they stepped onto the lowest foothills of the Misty Mountains, which undulated far below the lofty heights of the towering peaks.

For it was there, on a crystal clear morning of the Third Age of Middle-earth, that a solitary eagle, soaring high through the blanket blue sky, saw a lissom figure kneeling next to a stream buried amongst the rolling slopes which marked the lands surrounding the Misty Mountains. The bird ducked and wheeled, deep brown feathers playing in the breeze, and wondered at the peculiarity of the sight below him, for it was a rare event that this particular being was seen so far from the boughs of his woodland home. As the figure below raised a pale hand in greeting, the great eagle dipped its wings, acknowledging one who was as much a part of Middle-earth as he was himself, then sailed onwards into the golden-bright sun peering between the heights of the outlying mountain range, leaving the lone figure on the ground below to go about his business unwatched.

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The clear rays of the dawning sun danced over shifting leaves before kaleidoscoping on the damp earth which surrounded a swift stream, brushing over the back of the lithe figure who crouched adjacent. Delicately pointed ears, peeking from underneath a curtain of silvery-blonde hair, revealed the being as an elf, who reached forward, ever so carefully, to trail his hand through the trickling water before bringing it up before him to watch the tiny droplets which clung to the tips of his nimble fingers. Within seconds, most had lapsed gently back into the stream below, yet one last drop persisted, clinging with a tenaciousness belied by its silver-frail appearance.

Time stilled as the elf focused on the liquid diamond hanging from his hand. The trees quieted, hushing each other in whispers, and even the small birds and creatures who made their homes in the surrounding realm, largely untouched by man, stilled in anticipation.

The elf, however, waited patiently, as though he had all the time in the world to watch a single drop of water. Finally, ultimately, the crystal bead fell, tumbling, floating, falling until it met its cousins in the singing stream. Its voice joined the flowing choir, and slowly the sounds of the realm started up once more, joined mere seconds later by the soft pattering of hobbit feet on grass.

From where he crouched on the dark green ground, softened by the nearby stream, Legolas Thrandullion, warrior and prince of Mirkwood, glanced up expectantly. Sure enough, two curly-haired _periannath_ appeared from the surrounding thicket of trees, heads tousled, still wiping away the gathered sleep from their eyes. Nodding to the short yet sturdy creatures, Legolas greeted Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took with a smile as they dropped to the ground beside him, each bidding him a good morning as they did so. Yet when they said nothing further, an event highly unusual for those of hobbit kind, he looked at them more carefully, noting the disgruntled frown on Merry's face, and the slight crinkling of Pippin's brow which meant that he was puzzled…or hungry.

A few quiet minutes passed between the three companions, the hobbits worrying over whatever was bothering them in their own heads for once, and Legolas content to wait until the hobbits chose to reveal their problems of their own accord.

Sure enough, Merry, the older of the two hobbits, turned to the elf before the sun had climbed much further in the sky.

"Legolas?"

The elf prince glanced up, curiosity etched on his face. "Yes, Merry?"

The hobbit hesitated, considering his words. "Did you know that Strider hasn't played catch with us yet, in all our weeks of travel?" he asked, finally.

Legolas shook his head. "Nay," he replied, his voice flowing smoothly over the words. "I am afraid I had not noticed."

"Boromir has. And Gimli…sort of."

Legolas nodded, well remembering the entertaining afternoon when the hobbit cousins had persisted in 'accidentally' pelting the stocky creature with acorns until he had started to throw them back.

"We think that Gandalf would probably be to busy to play, and we don't really want to disturb him," Merry continued.

"I am sure that he would be only too happy to participate should you ask him," Legolas commented, his sharp eyes watching the hobbits with a shrewdness belied by his soft features.

"I thought we haven't asked him because we're too scared," Pippin interjected, looking curiously at his cousin, who sent him a quick glare before returning his attention to Legolas.

"Yes, well," the hobbit continued, ignoring his fellow hobbit's words with a pointedness that bordered on discourtesy, "my point is that we don't want to bother him right now."

"Frodo plays with us every now and again," jumped in Pippin, as Legolas nodded for a second time. "And even Sam joins in occasionally if Frodo's playing-"

"But Strider has never once played with us," finished Merry, his frown growing.

"No matter how much we beg him to," Pippin agreed, looking quite forlorn.

Legolas nodded slowly, considering the hobbits' predicament. "Well, that will not do at all," he stated finally. The hobbits looked up, hope lighting their eyes, and he smiled, rising swiftly to his feet. "After all, we are a fellowship, are we not? What one does, we should all do."

By this time, the two hobbits had gained their feet also.

"You mean you will help us?" asked Merry. An impish glint had lit his eyes.

Legolas shrugged. "What else are fellowships for?" he called over his shoulder as he turned back to the main camp, leaving two very pleased hobbits in his wake.

As soon as the elf had gone far enough that even his sharp ears could not hear, Merry turned to Pippin, giving him a hard nudge.

"Told you it would work," he hissed.

Reluctantly, Pippin reached into his coat pocket, drawing out the small knife which Strider had given him one night as he taught him how to skin some fish that Boromir and Gimli had caught. He handed it to the other hobbit with a soft sigh, and Merry pocketed it, grinning happily before reaching over and ruffling his younger cousin's hair.

--------------

It was some days before anything came of the hobbits' conversation with Legolas. Not known for their patience, the two cousins made it a habit to watch the prince carefully whenever he was in the vicinity of the dark-haired ranger, sending him encouraging smiles whenever they thought it necessary. Though quite aware of this, Legolas did not comment, comfortable to wait until the most opportune moment to carry out his carefully formulated plan. For, as he explained when the hobbits gave up on encouraging him and began to make rather forceful suggestions that he perform his allotted task immediately, to trick a ranger into playing a game of catch was not an easy task, and must therefore be articulated with the utmost precision and cunning if one did not want to be left lacking a limb when all came to a end.

Finally, in the early hours of a dimly lit morning, when the fellowship, exhausted from the climb of the previous day and despondent about the one which lay before them, were camped several miles up the first slopes of the Misty Mountains amidst one of the sparse patches of forest which littered the lower hills, Legolas moved with soft, certain strides to where an unsuspecting ranger lay on a convenient patch of frost-coated grass. A pack which the elf recognised as his own was bundled beneath the dark head, and the ranger's eyes were closed, his arms folded over the mossy green cloak wrapped close around the lean, yet surprisingly powerful, body, shielding it from the bite of the cool breeze, as well as the damp earth beneath. The ranger's pack lay half-open at his feet, its straps dusted with a sprinkling of the icy morning air, and the deep red of a fully seasoned apple could just be seen peeking from among the folds of the weathered cloth.

Pausing by the ranger's ankles, Legolas leant down, yet straightened immediately as the gravelly voice of the heir of Isildur, roughened by sleep, ground through the early mists.

"Did you want something, _mellon_ _nin_?"

Legolas shook his head. "Nay, Aragorn, I am well."

His eyes still closed, the ranger quieted, seeming to melt into the ground beneath him, blending with his surrounds with the same odd ability as an elf.

Slowly, deliberately, Legolas reached down and, with nimble and silent fingers, withdrew the apple out of the worn bag before stepping several feet back.

"I thought you did not want anything," commented Aragorn, without opening his eyes.

"I do not." Legolas tossed the apple high into the air, catching it again with ease. "Not any longer, at least."

"Know this, Legolas," the ranger declared. He paused to yawn heavily before continuing. "If you fail to return my apple to my bag, there will be one less elf in this world by the time the sun has reached its height."

Legolas brushed past the man's grumbled words with the knowledge that the ranger did not like being woken from his sleep, no matter how watchful it was in the first place. Tilting his head to the side, he closed his left eye ever so slightly, concentrating minutely. Then, drawing back his arm, he pegged the firm piece of fruit directly at the dozing man only feet away.

A mere second before it pelted into his chest, Aragorn put up his hand and caught the apple. His right eye cracked open, and he hurled the fruit back at the elf, aiming for the pale-golden head.

Legolas caught it easily. Balanced on quick feet, he looked at the man lying on the ground below. "You are a good shot," he stated.

Aragorn opened his eyes completely, focusing on the elf near his feet. "And you are the most irritating creature ever to roam Middle-earth. Now leave me in peace, for I am tired, and wish to sleep whilst I can."

"Nay," the prince reprimanded with a shake of his head. He gestured with a limber arm to the sky gleaming above, and to the rest of the fellowship around him, most of whom had paused in their already lethargic preparations for the morning meal to observe the two warriors in their banter. Merry and Pippin had even shuffled a few inconspicuous steps forward, and were watching eagerly, eyes bright with humour despite the tiredness that laced them from the previous day's travel.

"The sun is up," Legolas continued. "It is no time for slumber."

"Legolas, the sun has barely risen above the mountaintops."

"Then you admit that it is up."

"Just barely."

"Yet the fact remains."

"As does your ability to aggravate me."

"I take great pride in that skill."

"That skill shall be the cause of your demise, _mellon nin_, if you do not let me rest."

Legolas nodded, digesting the man's threat. "By what means, precisely?" he asked, curiously.

"Your pardon?"

"By what means shall I meet my demise?"

Realising that he was unlikely to get any more sleep that morning, Aragorn slowly levered himself up to a sitting position, slinging one arm loosely about his calves. "By the blade of a ranger's sword, what else?"

"It seems to me that the edge of a dwarf's axe would do a far better job than that," muttered a gruff voice.

Two sets of eyes, one a clear grey, the other porcelain-blue, fixed themselves on those of a red-bearded dwarf who was standing over the nearby campfire, rubbing his hands together in an attempt at warmth.

"If you do not wish to be introduced to the tip of an elf's arrow, then you would do best to be silent, son of Gloin," Legolas stated darkly. "This conversation is not meant for your ears."

"At least my ears do not resemble the very mountain we are about to scale," Gimli retorted, eyes glinting as he glared at the elf before him.

"I shall be surprised if you manage to scramble up even the first peak," Legolas returned, taking a step towards the campfire, and its companion.

From where they were standing just a few steps from Aragorn, who had lain back down on his makeshift bed, Merry and Pippin looked at each other, worried. Their plan seemed to be falling apart at the seams, thanks to the ever-present animosity between the sons of Thranduil and Gloin.

Quickly, the cousins scurried forward; Merry going directly to Gimli, and Pippin to Legolas, who rarely, if ever, refused any request made of him by the youngest member of the fellowship. Such a fact had proved to be to the elf prince's disadvantage, for, upon realising, Aragorn had proceeded to take full advantage of it, persuading the hobbit to ask Legolas for all manner of things, including whether he would mind catching Pippin's favourite bird for the occasional late supper. When questioned by a suspicious elf prince, the ranger had protested that if he and Pippin were of similar taste with regards to their favourite feathered feast, it was through no fault of his.

The elf and dwarf were still shooting insults back and forth when the hobbits jumped between them. Merry was the first to interrupt, asking in a loud voice whether Gimli would show him how to build up a nice, big fire for breakfast. Using his cousin's chatter as a cover, Pippin caught the elf prince's eye, and nodded overtly towards Aragorn.

Legolas raised a fine eyebrow at this less than subtle attempt at distraction, yet refrained from commenting. Tossing the apple into the air and catching it, he cast a regretful glance at the dwarf now bent invitingly over the growing fire, then turned away, eying the ranger who had wrapped himself tightly in his blankets and had seemingly gone back to sleep.

Again the apple hurtled through the air towards the dozing figure. Aragorn, however, simply raised an arm and caught it once more, before throwing it back with equal force.

"Tell me, Legolas," he asked idly. "Why is it that you persist in bombarding me with fruit?"

"Merry and Pippin wish for you to play a game of catch," replied the elf, his eyes as innocent as the morning sky.

At this, Gandalf, who was lowering himself onto the convenient trunk of a fallen tree, having had just returned from gathering water from an icy brook with Frodo and Sam, muttered a few choice words to himself. The two hobbits standing beside him, each of whom was carrying a full saucepan, looked at each other, puzzled at the wizard's response to Legolas' assertion, yet were soon distracted by the ranger's reply.

"Ah." Aragorn digested the elf's words, head canted to the side as he threw a sidelong glance at the watching hobbit cousins. "And if I refuse to play?"

"Then you had best hope that your reflexes are as quick as you boast."

"So you are telling me that if I refuse to play, you will continue to throw apples at me."

The elf nodded silently.

"Yet if I do play, the very point of the game is to throw apples at me."

Again, a nod.

With a soft sigh, Aragorn pushed himself to his feet, letting the cloak drop to the ground and pool about his feet. "It seems I have little choice in the matter, then," he observed.

The elf's eyes lit up with all the energy of a young child. "You will play?"

Raising one arm backwards over his shoulder and tugging on it, Aragorn nodded. "Aye, for at least this way I have ample opportunity to throw the apples back." Shaking his arm out, he pulled the other one back, loosening his tight muscles in preparation for the game. Legolas simply stood there, resting lightly on the balls of his feet as he tossed the apple back and forth between his hands, waiting for the man to finish.

That done, the two moved to a flat piece of ground at the edge of the campsite, then took positions opposite one another. They stood there, silent and still, waiting for a sign that no other member of the fellowship could discern.

"No trees," the ranger called out into the quiet, his voice shrewd.

The slightest quirk of the elf's mouth indicated that he had taken the man's words on board, yet other than that he remained motionless. The next second, he was moving quick as the wind, pitching the innocuous fruit at his dark-haired opponent.

Aragorn's hand shot out, yet the apple had barely touched his hand before it left again, barrelling to the right, so that Legolas had to dart like lightning to catch it.

The elf paused for a fleeting second, holding the apple tight between fingers trained to release the fletching of an arrow. Then he was moving again, this time sending the apple to tear a smooth arc above the ranger's head.

Aragorn shifted and leapt with an agility usually reserved for those of elf kind. Fingers stretched and closed, and he returned to the ground successful, the fruit held tight within his grasp. His eyes darted to his opponent, sending the elf a swift, mocking, glance, one meant to infuriate.

"I must admit, Legolas, I suspected more of a challenge from a son of Thranduil." Letting the jibe ring through the otherwise silent camp, he threw the apple high once more.

Legolas caught it. "Do not fool yourself, ranger. The game has barely started."

Aragorn stilled, his attention focused solely on the lone elf. "Take care, _mellon nin_," he cautioned, and a curious, taunting, gleam appeared in his grey eyes. "There is a brook only a quarter mile from here, and I would not wish for you to fall in again."

Still watching from the side of the camp, Pippin frowned, suddenly lost. What was the ranger talking about? Ever so cautiously, he began to edge around the campsite, careful to avoid the man and elf in the middle of it, until he reached Merry, who was still standing by the brightly burning campfire next to Gimli, who had settled back on his heels to watch the game. "What did he mean, 'again?'" the young hobbit questioned, turning to face his cousin, who was watching with his hands in his coat pockets to protect them against the morning chill.

"I'm not sure, Pip," Merry replied. "But hush, I'm trying to watch."

"That was only one time!" the elf prince declared, his usually melodious voice stern, still clasping the apple between his long fingers. "And if I remember correctly, it was you, Aragorn, who swore to me that those bushes hid nothing but solid ground!"

"And it was you who was fool enough to believe me despite our situation!" Aragorn returned, with barely a pause.

Legolas' eyes narrowed. "Then it was my fault?"

The ranger met the icy gaze with one equally as hard. "Is it not always?"

Before the watching hobbits knew what had happened, Legolas had darted forward and launched himself at Aragorn, driving him to the ground with the unyielding thud of muscle against turf. The apple rolled away, unnoticed by all.

"Watch your words, ranger," Legolas hissed. "For it is foolish to place blame where it is not deserved."

With a strange twist of his body, Aragorn rolled so that the lighter elf lay pinned underneath him. "Then it is fortunate that I have done no such thing," he growled. "The error was your own, and as such you reaped the consequences."

To the watching hobbit's shock, Legolas drew his left arm back and drove it into man's shoulder. Aragorn, however, had pulled instinctively back at the first hint of the elf's movement, and the limb only struck him a glancing blow on his collarbone.

The two paused for the briefest of instants, then, with the same curious twist, Legolas propelled the ranger off of him. Leaping to his feet, he darted quickly away, only to be taken down once more when Aragorn tackled him from behind.

Uncertain now at the violent turn the proposed game seemed to have taken, Pippin sidled even closer to Merry.

"I thought we just wanted them to play a quick game of catch," he whispered, worried.

"So did I," Merry whispered back, shrugging even further into his jacket as a soft bite of wind swept through the camp.

Both hobbits winced in unison as the elf's elbow knocked against the ranger's ribcage, sending him sprawling backwards.

"In Gondor, we use the game of catch as a training exercise," a deep voice interrupted. The cousins turned to see the man, Boromir, standing behind them, clothed in his thick fur cloak against the mountain air, sharp eyes focused on the two struggling figures.

Noticing the hobbits' blank looks out of the corner of his eye, Boromir elaborated. "To improve reflexes. It sharpens the eye, and one's reactions, both of which are needed in battle."

"Then…this is not the first time they have played this game?" Pippin asked anxiously.

"I cannot be sure, yet I would imagine that the exercise is not restricted to my city alone." The man's brow furrowed. "I must admit, master halflings, that I have not seen the game played with such fierceness in all my time in the White City."

"Perhaps it is a different version of the game, one that the elves play," Merry suggested, watching as Legolas neatly dodged the ranger's heavy boot only to receive a blow to the shoulder.

"You are both wrong."

Merry, Pippin and Boromir looked up to see Gandalf standing over them, mouth set in a firm line as he watched Aragorn and Legolas. Frodo and Sam trailed behind him, still bearing their saucepans of icy-fresh water.

"This is merely an example of two fools who have known one another far too long trying to better each other in a game they have been playing since the very week they met," the wizard continued. His mouth tightened as Aragorn's right foot ploughed into the elf's ribcage.

"But why are they fighting like that?" Pippin asked anxiously.

"Because they are both as stubborn as each other," Gandalf grumbled, "and neither has been willing to admit to a defeat in all the time I have known them." He frowned. "No matter how many times either one of them ends up in a lake."

Turning to Sam, who was chewing nervously on his lip as he watched the man and elf fight, the wizard bent down slightly, his cloud-blue eyes gentling. "May I borrow this, Master Samwise?" he asked, nodding to the saucepan the hobbit was clutching.

Looking up as though surprised to see the wizard so near, Sam nodded.

Lifting the saucepan out of the stout hobbit's hands, Gandalf walked over to where the elf and ranger were struggling on the ground. As the rest of the fellowship watched, he lifted the tin pot high, then upended it, instantly drenching the figures beneath.

Bolting upright, Aragorn and Legolas shot apart, dripping water as they backed away. Together, they pivoted to face the Maia, who had turned on his heel and was walking back to the campfire, grumbling to himself about the foolishness of elves and rangers.

"Is he allowed to do that?" Pippin asked in a hushed voice, staring from Gandalf to the two dripping warriors.

Boromir struggled to hold back a laugh as Aragorn and Legolas swivelled to stare at one another, each as silent as the deepest cavern of Middle-earth. "It would seem so," he replied evenly, and bent down to join Gimli, who had taken the other saucepan from Frodo and set it over the fire to boil.

As the four hobbits watched, Aragorn and Legolas turned as one, and walked with the utmost dignity towards the edge of the campsite, pausing only when they reached the foot one of the few trees which inhabited the lower slopes of the mountain, whose thick roots sprawled over the surrounding ground. With barely a bend of his limbs, Legolas leapt into the branches, disappearing amongst the dense foliage. A moment later, a pale arm emerged from within the thick branches, long fingers outstretched. The ranger, left on the ground below, grasped it, and a second later too was lost amongst the dark leaves.

The four hobbits glanced at each other, mystified, none of them quite sure what they had just witnessed.

Finally, Frodo, with hesitant steps, walked over to where the deep red apple lay, discarded, on the ground. Picking it up, he moved until he was standing beneath the tree into which the ranger and elf had disappeared, and held the fruit up as high as he could.

As the remaining hobbits watched, the slim torso of the prince of Mirkwood appeared upside-down from amidst the laden branches, silver-blonde hair trailing like a smooth silken sheet as it framed the pale elven face. With a quiet murmur of thanks, the apple was plucked from Frodo's fingers, and the lissom form disappeared once more, lost amongst the thick foliage.

A smile played over Frodo's lips as he returned to the other hobbits, and he looked over at his gardener.

"Now there's something you will be able to tell your Gaffer about, Sam," he commented.

Sam nodded slowly, the anxiousness disappearing from his face as he focused on the other hobbit. "I never would've thought I'd ever see a thing like that," he remarked in wonderment. "An elf and a ranger fighting like Mister Aragorn and Mister Legolas just did, I mean."

Frodo nodded, yet left Merry and Pippin chatting excitedly with Sam about what they had just witnessed, and instead walked towards the tree trunk where Gandalf was sitting, fiddling with his pipe. He waited until Gimli and Boromir had placed the bird Legolas had caught the previous night to crackle cheerfully over the fire before he turned to face the old man.

"Why did they do that?" he asked curiously.

The wizard turned to him, blue eyes gleaming with a strangely warm light which contrasted with the chill of the mountainous air. "As I said, Frodo, neither our elf prince, nor our ranger, is one to admit defeat easily."

"But…" the hobbit paused, unsure of what, exactly, he was asking, yet before he could get any further, the wizard held up a quieting hand.

"Frodo, my dear hobbit," he said softly. "Perhaps you should not be thinking of what Aragorn and Legolas did to each other, but of what they did for the rest of the fellowship."

Frodo frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Neither Merry, Pippin, nor Sam is thinking at all about the arduous climb we have ahead of us today, are they?"

"No, but surely-"

"Then I suspect that what Aragorn and Legolas set out to do was accomplished," Gandalf finished simply.

"Then, all that … was just to distract us?"

"I would not presume to know precisely what goes on in the heads of those two," answered Gandalf, nodding towards the tree into which the elf and ranger had disappeared. "Yet I think it is safe to say that one should not take any of their actions purely at face value."

"I find them confusing, sometimes," Frodo admitted hesitantly. "They have become as close to me as some of my friends back home, closer even, and Sam worships them both, but neither are what I expected of an elf prince and a ranger."

Gandalf nodded. "It is rare that somebody is what we expect. But hear me, Frodo, in Aragorn and Legolas, as confusing as they may sometimes seem, you have found two of the truest friends you will ever know."

When the dark-haired hobbit only nodded, his gaze returning to the upper branches of a certain tree, Gandalf gave him a soft nudge. "Now go, Frodo, and try and scavenge what is left of the food Gimli has prepared before that fool of a Took and his cousin eat it all."

With once last glance at thick branches, Frodo slid off the tree trunk and started towards the campfire.

"And Frodo?"

"Yes, Gandalf?"

"I think it is also safe to say that it would be greatly appreciated if you offered some food up to one of the trees surrounding us."

Frodo smiled, warmed suddenly by the thought of the friendships he had made on this quest, of the curious people he knew he would never have met had his uncle not had a little nudge out the door all those years ago. Nodding his agreement, he headed towards the merrily burning campfire, suddenly more cheerful than he had been in many a day.

--------------

As he watched the Ring-bearer bully three hobbits, a Gondorian and a dwarf into sparing some food for the man and the elf who sat, brooding, in a tree miles up the first slopes of the Misty Mountains, Gandalf chuckled, knowing that he had one more tale to add to his ever-expanding collection about a friendship which would outlast the ages and beyond.

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**I really hope that this chapter was worth the wait, and I'd love it if you could let me know if you liked it. As always, thank you for reading!**


	3. Hide and Seek

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings.**

**I can only offer my sincerest apologies to anyone who has been waiting for me to update this story. I only hope the wait was worth it! :)**

**--**

**Hide and Seek**

"Well?" Meriadoc Brandybuck demanded, looking expectantly at his sandy-headed cousin. "Anything?"

Peregrin Took shook his head, his short curls falling into his eyes and causing him to nearly topple down the craggy mountainside as he navigated a particularly icy bit of ground before falling in step with the other hobbit once again. "No, Merry, not a thing."

Merry frowned. "I just don't understand it," he muttered as he trudged along, hands hidden in the folds of his coat pockets from the cool bite of the air. "We've been trying for over a week now, and, if anything, we know less than when we first started! "

Pippin nodded in obliging agreement as he listened to his cousin grumble about the secrecy of the elves. Soon, however, the other hobbit's voice began to blend with the rhythmic footfalls of the rest of the fellowship as the small company made their way down the precarious slopes of Caradhras. Within minutes, Pippin had drifted into a pleasant daydream about first breakfast in the Great Smials, with the rest of his family and extended relatives gathered round the table alongside him, all of them sniffing at the cheering aromas floating in from the kitchen as they chattered excitedly about Cook's latest recipe. He had just begun to breathe in the heavenly scent of still-warm scones dripping with butter when a sharp nudge to his ribs brought him abruptly back to cold-footed reality.

Merry was looking at him impatiently. "Pippin? What do you think?"

Deciding it was probably in his best interests to at least pretend he had been listening, Pippin gave a hesitant nod, then another firmer one when Merry looked mollified. "I think that's the best yet," he ventured tentatively, doing his best not to think about the scrambled eggs with the lightest lashings of salt and pepper that were sure to have followed the scones had he been at home.

"It's settled then," said Merry determinedly. "We'll ask Strider tonight, when he's on watch."

Pippin nodded and, seeing that Merry appeared satisfied for the time being, let himself drift back into his daydream of fried potatoes, ripe tomatoes and nice crispy bacon.

--

Boromir, son of Denethor, shifted impatiently under his heavy cloak as he waited for his companions to settle down to sleep around the small fire that was the centre of that night's camp. Though a seemingly simple task, it was taking longer than usual as most of the members of the fellowship were otherwise engaged.

The hobbit cousins, Merry and Pippin, both of whom Boromir had warmed to as early as their first meeting, kept exchanging surreptitious glances and ducking off to the edges of the camp to hold a hurried discussion, only to be shepherded back by Aragorn, who was scheduled to take first watch that night. As soon as the ranger had turned his back, however, the cousins were off again, curly heads together as they debated between themselves.

The elven prince, Legolas, and the dwarf, Gimli, were also exchanging words in what was surely their umpteenth argument of the day. Muscular arms, both short and slender, were moving in wild gesticulations, but the two warriors kept their voices hushed, each knowing well how voices carried under the cover of night. Finally, the sharp tones of the wizard, Gandalf, brought a quick end to the quarrel, and both elf and dwarf settled down to sleep, as far away from each other as they could get without leaving the protective ring of the flickering firelight.

Boromir heaved a sigh of relief as Aragorn finally managed to marshal Merry and Pippin to bed. There was only Gandalf to go now, for Frodo and Sam had both retreated early that evening, and were currently burrowed among a hoard of cloaks and blankets that Sam had begged and borrowed from various members of the fellowship.

It took a good while for the wizard to retire, and Boromir found himself shifting impatiently under his cloak as he watched the old man stomp back and forth around the camp, peering into every nook and cranny. Soon after they had stopped for the night, Gandalf had discovered his favourite clay pipe was missing and had spent the rest of the dying day searching for it, snapping at anyone who dared approach him as he searched through every pack and under every rock, tree and hobbit in a fierce hunt. He had so far been unsuccessful, with the result that his temper had shortened even further than was usual. Most of the company had made a conscious effort to avoid him during supper, with the exception of Aragorn and Legolas, both of whom had joined Gandalf in his search, though unfortunately to no avail.

At long last, Gandalf scrounged down under his blanket, still muttering about his pipe. Scanning the rest of the dark shapes covering the ground and seeing them all silent and still in sleep, Boromir hefted a sigh of relief. Finally he could put his plan into action.

Searching out the shadow that was the ranger on watch, Boromir shed the warmth of his covers and climbed to his feet. Though he tried hard to soften his steps, he was not yet in a dozen feet of the other man when Aragorn turned his head, watching his approach with eyes that were hidden under the low hood of his dark cloak.

"Lord Boromir."

"Aragorn." Boromir fell into stride beside the ranger. "May I join you?" he asked, though he had no intention of being turned away.

He could feel the man's gaze on him for some seconds before he was awarded a nod. They continued on around the campfire in silence until finally the ranger spoke.

"If you wish to further discuss our route, Master Boromir, I would suggest you talk to the wizard, or to Master Baggins. I hold no sway in this matter."

Boromir pushed down his displeasure at his intended purpose of the night's meeting being guessed so quickly. "You mistake my intentions, Aragorn," he said, feeling the false words slip through his teeth with foreign ease. "I simply sought some company, for it seems that sleep is reluctant to be my friend this night. Besides," he added, unable to stop himself, "the ring-bearer's choice is his own. Who am I to disagree?"

Boromir was certain, even in the flickering half-light of the campfire, that the ranger's eyes hinted towards a scepticism at his words that belied his considered response. "My apologies," Aragorn murmured. "I was of the belief that you were fully against us taking any route but that of the Gap of Rohan."

"I sought only the safest path for our fellowship, and for the burden we carry," Boromir bit back. Feeling the weight of the ranger's sharp gaze deepen suddenly, Boromir took a deep breath, fighting to keep his temper in check, reminding himself that antagonism had not been his plan this night. "But we must all abide by the Ring-bearer's decision…no matter how ill-informed it is."

Aragorn did not say anything to this, and the two men fell into an uneasy silence as they continued to circle the camp. Letting his eyes rove over the other members of the fellowship, Boromir found his gaze coming to rest on the dark shape of Frodo before he forced it away, aware of the ranger beside him. Casting his companion a guarded glance, the Gondorian's attention was caught by something half-hidden in the dark folds of the ranger's cloak. "Excuse me if I am mistaken, Aragorn," he started, "but is that not Gandalf's pipe you are carrying?"

For the slightest of moments, Boromir thought he saw guilt flicker across the ranger's face, yet it disappeared quickly, replaced by the same flint-like expression as always.

"Nay, it is my own," Aragorn replied shortly. "Gandalf's is missing, did you not hear?"

"My apologies." Boromir let silence fall once again. However, as he circled the camp one last time with Aragorn, his eyes kept straying to the familiar long-stemmed pipe sticking out of the ranger's pocket, until at last it was nudged further into the depths of the cloak and out of sight with a casual brush of the ranger's arm.

It was only after the Gondorian had retired to bed for a second time that night that a dark figure dropped lightly from the boughs of the trees above, landing next to the ranger on silent feet.

"Do you think he knows?"

Silence lingered for some time before Aragorn shook his head. "Nay, he could not."

The new figure nodded, yet his melodic voice was wary when he next spoke. "Still, it is best we are cautious_, mellon nin_. He sees much for a human."

"And his eyes linger on one thing in particular," Aragorn murmured, half to himself, as he watched the solid bulk of the son of Denethor shift restlessly under the blankets that covered him.

Legolas did not reply, yet he remained by the ranger's side as the man moved to circle the camp yet again, both watching for threats from outside the flickering light of the campfire, even whilst their thoughts swirled on those far nearer.

--

"Well, that didn't work."

His arms full of broken bits of wood, eachl of which seemed to be doing their best to poke him in the ribs, Pippin hurried to catch with his cousin. "What didn't work?" he asked curiously.

Merry frowned as he bent over to pick up a rather sizeable log. "Our plan, Pippin, that's what!"

"Oh." Pippin cocked his head to the side. "And what plan was that, exactly?"

Merry glared at him. "Do you not listen to a word I say?" he demanded. Pippin did not have a chance to reply before Merry dumped his most recent acquisition into his arms and continued. "With Boromir wandering around like that, we didn't even have a chance to ask Aragorn!"

"Ask Aragorn what?"

Merry stared at him, his face a mixture of annoyance and incredulity. "Why, how old Legolas is, of course!"

"I knew that," Pippin affirmed hastily, adjusting his armful of firewood as it tipped precariously to the side. "I was just testing you."

"Testing me?" Merry repeated, his voice dubious.

"Well, we need to keep our minds sharp on a quest like this, don't we?"

"Yes, but-"

"There you go then."

Merry frowned, but his attention was soon back on the matter at hand. "I just don't know what to do, Pippin," he exclaimed in frustration, kicking a stone on the ground so it barrelled towards a nearby tree before rebounding off the solid trunk. "I must have asked Legolas a dozen times in the last week, and he hasn't given me a straight answer yet! And you haven't fared any better!"

Bending down to pick up what looked to him like a particularly burnable bit of wood, Pippin winced as a stick poked him in the soft bit of his stomach. "Why don't we just ask Gandalf then?" he wondered aloud. "He knows everything."

Merry looked up, his eyes alight. "That's not a bad idea, Pippin. Come on, we've got enough wood for the fire. Let's ask him now."

Their cunning plan, however, was brought to an abrupt halt as they walked into camp to see Frodo and Sam already talking to the wizard.

"Mr. Gandalf, sir!" Sam was saying. "I heard you found your pipe!"

Gandalf nodded distractedly, busy digging around in one of the many folds of his cloak. "I did, Master Gamgee."

"Where was it?" Pippin asked curiously, depositing his branches on the ground beside the gardener.

"It was in his pack," Frodo cut in when the wizard did not answer, preoccupied with his searching. "Right where you suggested he look, Sam."

"'Look once and it'll be gone, look twice and it'll never have moved,' Sam recited as he carefully arranged the new kindling to give it the best chance of catching alight and reached into his shirt pocket to pull out his flint. "That's what my Gaffer always said."

"It seems he was right, as usual, Sam," Frodo said with a smile as he watched the flames creep swiftly up the kindling.

"I declare," said Pippin, settling down on the ground before the now merrily burning fire. "I don't think the Gaffer's ever been wrong!"

"I wouldn't say that, Pip," Merry retorted. "What about when he thought Sam had eaten those tarts Rosie had baked, and it was actually you and me?"

Their conversation was interrupted as Gandalf cleared his throat. "Might I trouble you to borrow your flint now you're done with that fire, Master Gamgee?" he requested of gardener, who was glaring at an unperturbed Merry and Pippin even as he continued to stoke the fire. "I seem to have misplaced mine."

--

Aragorn only just caught the soft, barely-there whistle over the stony lower slopes of Caradhras, bent as he was over the carcass of the bird he was skinning, a couple of dozen feet from Gandalf, who was half-buried in his pack in a last-ditch effort to find his still-missing flint. Around him, Merry and Pippin had their own packs spread out, and were digging through them in a vain attempt to prove to Gandalf that they had not taken the object of his search as a "foolish prank." Not pausing in his task, Aragorn spoke under his breath, relying on the sharp ears of his hidden cohort to hear him.

"Do you have it?"

"Aye. Though I think the bearded one might have seen me."

Aragorn threw a quick sidelong glance at the patch of sparse bushes to his left. "His name is Gimli, _mellon nin_. It would do you well to use it."

There was a pause. "You think he would turn us in?"

"I think he would turn _you_ in. I am not the one who used his helmet as a water flask."

"I merely sought to get some use out of it, for there is nothing in his head for it to protect."

"Do not tell me that you informed him of that."

"I am no fool, ranger."

"Contrary to all appearances and actions," Aragorn muttered.

A mere second later, a sharp pain shot through his ear, and Aragorn only just managed to stifle his hiss as a small pebble dropped to the ground beside him. "What was that for?" he demanded angrily.

"Guess," was the dry response.

Aragorn glared at the bush. "I am not the one you should be attacking, m_ellon nin_. We have another, far more deserving, target at this moment."

There was a pause. A second later, Aragorn heard Gandalf curse loudly, and saw the wizard jump to his feet, one hand clutching his ear. "Peregrin Took!" he bellowed, then stopped abruptly, seeing the hobbit in question sitting by his feet, his hands full with the contents of his pack.

Subsiding, Gandalf sent a suspicious glance towards Aragorn, but the ranger merely held up his feather-coated hands with a shrug. "Never you mind," Aragorn heard the wizard grumble to the young hobbit as he went back to searching for his flint.

Deciding it was in his best interests to pretend not to hear the muffled laughter from the sparse shrub beside him, Aragorn instead focused on his bird. A whispered conversation between the two hobbit cousins drew his attention however, and he glanced up to see Merry clear his throat nervously and address the wizard.

"Excuse me, Gandalf," Merry began "but we were wondering if you might be able to answer a question for us..."

--

"I give up."

Gimli, son of Gloin, glanced from underneath his brows at the curly-headed hobbit who had just flopped to the ground next to where he was sitting on a broken tree stump sharpening his axe.

"So do I," another voice echoed, and Peregrin Took joined his cousin on the soft ground.

Pausing in his work, Gimli looked at them. "Something seems to be troubling you, master hobbits," he observed.

"It's Legolas," Merry grumbled.

Gimli's eyebrows rose. "Aye? And what has that fool elf done now?"

"He's keeping secrets from us," Pippin complained.

Gimli snorted. "Typical." Shifting his grip on his whetstone, he resumed his work, pressing more heavily upon the blade this time.

"We want to know how old he is, and he's avoided telling us for over a week now," Merry confided, leaning towards the dwarf, who tested the blade of his weapon on his roughened finger before returning to his task, unsatisfied.

"We just asked Gandalf and he was no help at all," Pippin continued.

"And we didn't even get a chance to ask Aragorn," Merry added.

"Boromir would have no idea, even if we did ask him."

"Nor would Sam."

"Frodo might know-"

"But we don't really want to bother him at the moment, because of the whole Ring business."

Again, Gimli ran his finger along the edge of the blade, a grim smile forming on his face as a fine line of red appeared on his calloused skin. "I don't suppose you hobbits would want the help of a dwarf," he commented offhandedly.

Pippin and Merry looked at him, open-mouthed.

"You don't mean that _you _know, do you?" exclaimed Merry.

"We didn't even think to ask, seeing as how you and Legolas don't exactly get on very well," chimed in Pippin.

Gimli cleared his throat. "Well, Master Hobbits, even if I am lacking in that knowledge now, there's nothing to stop me from finding out, is there?" As the hobbits stared at him, wide-eyed, Gimli rose to his feet, axe in his hand. "Now, how about you point me in the direction of that pointy-eared tree-climber, and I'll see what I can do for you."

As one, Merry and Pippin pointed in the direction of a swiftly running stream that Aragorn had scouted out that morning.

With his newly sharpened axe clenched tightly in his hands, Gimli marched off.

--

Samwise Gamgee blanched at the sound of raised voices coming from the direction of the swift-flowing stream. "Sounds like Mister Legolas and Mister Gimli are at it again," he murmured to himself, wincing as a particularly barbarous exchange echoed over the plains that preceded the early slopes of Caradharas.

"For the last time, dwarf," exclaimed the melodious tones of the elf prince. "I have given you my answer!"

"Answer?" the dwarf's rough voice blustered. "If what you gave me was an answer, then I am an- an elf!"

"Do not be foolish. You are far too short."

Sam winced.

"I can bring you down to my level with one blow of my axe if I so wish it!" Gimli retorted. "Now tell me what I want to know!"

"I have!"

"You told me that you are as old as the youngest tree in that dank forest you elves call a home!"

"You wished to know how old I am, did you not? So I gave you your answer."

"That is not an answer!"

"It is to me!"

There was a moment's silence. Then Gimli's voice growled through the sparse scrub.

"Do not think this is over, Elf."

Sam pressed himself back into a handy bush as the dwarf stomped past, muttering furiously under his breath. He waited until he could no longer make out the red-hair of the son of Gloin through the trees, and then gathered his courage and stepped forward.

The elf prince looked up from where he was bent over the rushing stream formed by snow melting off the mountain that stretching high above them. "Master Samwise! Have you come to join me?"

There was no sign of the animosity the elf had exhibited towards the dwarf, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief even as his already rosy cheeks reddened. He shifted on his feet, twisting the saucepan he was holding between his fingers. "Yes, sir, and it's Sam, if you don't mind, sir," he responded, still more than a little bit nervous about conversing with an elf, and a prince, what was more.

"Then it is Legolas, also," was the simple reply.

With a shy nod and a final sideways glance, Sam hurried the few steps left towards the bank of the stream which meandered a hundred yards or so from the fellowship's current campsite. Crouching low, he dipped the large saucepan into the water and waited for it to fill up.

"Did you hear that Gandalf found his flint?" he asked, feeling as though he should say something to break the silence, and half-hoping to keep the elf prince from dwelling on his argument with Gimli.

The elf prince nodded. "I did indeed, Sam. It is good news, is it not?"

Sam nodded eagerly. "And it was right where he said he'd left it, too, just like his pipe." He chuckled. "If I didn't have their solemn oath, I would think that it was Merry and Pippin, playing tricks like they do back home in the Shire."

"I would like to visit your Shire, one day, Sam," Legolas commented. "It sounds a beautiful place."

"Oh, it is, Mister Legolas. Why, in springtime you can hardly see the world for all the flowers popping up, if you know what I mean."

Legolas nodded. "My home was once like that," he said softly. "And hopefully, it shall be again."

They fell into silence again, but it was more comfortable this time. Sam found himself watching the elf prince as he waited for the water to reach the brim of his saucepan.

"Did you want something, Sam?" the elf prince questioned politely, noticing the hobbit watching him.

Sam jumped, startled, then met the other's questioning gaze. "Well, come to think on it," he said hesitantly, "I was wondering about something."

"And what was that?"

"What are you doing with Gandalf's hat?"

The elf glanced down at the grey wizard's hat he was holding between his long fingers, just above the level of the water, then met Sam's gaze once more. "It had gathered some dirt from yesterday's climb, so I thought to clean it."

Sam frowned.

"Is something the matter?"

"What? Oh, no, Mister Legolas. It just seems like a rather odd thing for you to do, that's all. Especially considering what happened the other day, with you and Aragorn, and Gandalf tipping that water on you."

"What's past is past, Sam," Legolas stated. "I am not one to hold a grudge."

Sam nodded, withdrawing the now-full saucepan from the stream. "Do you want me to tell Gandalf that you have his hat, just in case he's wonderin' where it is?"

The elf prince shook his head. "Nay, Samwise, I shall do that myself, but thank you for the offer."

With one last thoughtful look at the grey hat the elf was holding, which, now he came to think of it, seemed no dirtier than usual, Sam returned to the camp, his mind returning once more to the journey through the mines ahead.

--

"Those cotton-headed fools!" Gandalf exclaimed angrily, straightening from his examination of the packs that the pony, Bill, usually carried.

"Whatever's wrong, Gandalf?" Frodo asked in concern, his blue eyes questioning as he turned to look at the wizard.

A few feet away, Boromir started awake and struggled to a sitting-position, one hand groping for his sword whilst the other rubbed at his sleep-worn eyes.

Yet the wizard ignored them both, instead turning in a small circle where he stood, his eyes roaming the clearing.

Frodo looked at Boromir, but the man merely shrugged, and, seeing that there was no apparent threat other than that of an annoyed wizard, returned to his nap.

Realising that there was no help to be gotten from that particular member of the fellowship, Frodo stood up and joined the wizard at his side. "Gandalf? What is wrong?"

"Those fools stole my hat!"

"Your hat?" Frodo looked upwards, and sure enough, the wizard's grizzled head was bare. He shook his head, fighting back a growing smile. "Do not worry, Gandalf. I shall go talk to my cousins. You shall soon have your hat back."

"Your cousins?" Gandalf repeated, bristling. "Nay, Frodo, it is that ridiculous excuse of a ranger and his elf friend that I am after."

Frodo blinked, surprised. "Surely you cannot think that Aragorn and Legolas would have taken it?"

"I do not think it, Frodo, I know it. Their behaviour has been far too sensible this part fortnight for them not to have been up to some mischief or other." Squaring his shoulders, the wizard rose to his full height. "Mark my words, young Master Baggins, I'll get my hat back if it's the last thing I do."

Frodo watched, nonplussed, as Gandalf strode off towards the edge of the camp, his grey robe billowing behind him.

With a sigh, Frodo rose to his feet and followed him, grabbing Sam along the way.

--

"_Mellon nin_?"

Legolas looked over to where his friend lay in the crook of a tree branch, one leg hooked over the other at the knee and his arms behind his head, and smiled. It had taken him many years to teach the human to feel even half as comfortable in a tree as he was on the ground, and it was even rarer to see the ranger so relaxed in these dark times. "Aye?"

"Just how old are you exactly?"

Legolas' smile deepened at the familiar question. "I have told you this, Estel, many years ago."

"Like Gimli said, 'as old as the youngest tree in the forest' is not answer if the questioner does not know how old the tree is."

"Perhaps you should try asking Gandalf."

"I have," the ranger replied flatly. "He is about as vocal on this matter as is Lord Elrond."

"Your brothers?"

"I know only that you have them sworn to secrecy on the matter."

"The Evenstar?"

"I have asked everyone, Legolas, as you well know, and have received no answer."

"Very well."

Surprised, the ranger shifted until he was sitting up. "You will tell me?"

"I will."

"Swear it."

"By my king and father, I shall tell you this very minute or never."

When the elf fell into silence after this declaration, Aragorn raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Well?"

Slowly, the elf prince met his gaze, his eyes grave. "Alright, _mellon _nin," he said. "I shall tell you. Though I must ask you never to repeat this information to anyone. Not even to your dearest friend."

"You are my dearest friend."

"Swear it."

The ranger nodded. "You have my oath."

"Truly?"

"I swear."

"On what?"

"On everything that I am."

"Very well. I shall do it. I shall tell you how many years I have lived in this world." The elf paused, waiting, until finally opening his mouth to complete his sentence. "I am-"

"Aragorn! Legolas!"

Aragorn nearly fell off his tree branch at the bellow that echoed through the wood. "The wizard!" he hissed, only just managing to regain his balance by grabbing at a handy limb.

"He sounds somewhat displeased," Legolas murmured.

"We stole his hat, Legolas, of course he is displeased!"

"Not to mention his flint," Legolas added.

"And his pipe," Aragorn finished. He looked at the elf prince, his face grim. "It seems our crimes have come due, _mellon nin_."

"He started it."

"True enough, but I do not think that matters at the moment."

"Aye. What do you suggest we do?"

"Hide."

Legolas frowned, displeased. "Warriors of Mirkwood do not hide."

"Do you wish to face him for the both of us then?"

"Do I look like a fool?"

"Aye, but I see no other way. We must hide."

Considering this, Legolas nodded. "Come then," he whispered, rising to his feet, still balanced on the narrow tree branch. Bending his knees slightly, he sprang upwards, grasping the limb above him with long fingers before pulling himself higher among the leaves. With a little more difficulty, the ranger followed.

"Aragorn?" Legolas asked, as he lightly pulled himself onto the next branch, and disappeared higher amongst the foliage. "Do you think that wizards know how to climb trees?"

Aragorn grimaced. "For our sakes, _mellon nin_, I hope not."

--

Night fell quickly at the bottom of the Misty Mountains, sending the wide plains and sparse forests into darkness from one moment to the next.

High in the branches of the same tree they had retreated to earlier that day, a ranger and an elf could just be seen through the shadows, one resting securely in the crook of a juncture, the other perched on a limb so slim he looked set to plummet to the ground at any time. Yet the tree held the wood elf safe, much to the annoyance of the bushy-browed wizard waiting far below on the solid ground.

Secure in their tree, the two friends waited in comfortable silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, until finally, the voice of the ranger broke the quiet.

"You have yet to keep your promise, _mellon nin_."

Legolas twisted nimbly in order to look at the ranger. "What promise?" he asked curiously.

"You swore to tell me how many years you have lived in Middle-Earth."

Legolas shook his head, causing the limb he was twined around to sway precariously, and the wizard below him to raise his head in hopeful anticipation. "You heard my oath, _mellon nin_. I swore to tell you my age then or never."

Silence reigned in the tree for some minutes, until finally, the ranger spoke once more. "You tricked me."

"Aye."

"You heard Gandalf coming."

"True."

"You were simply wasting time by gaining my oath to keep your secret."

"Indeed."

Aragorn growled. "And what of Merry and Pippin?" he demanded. "Do they now know what I do not?"

"Nay. I managed to distract them, early this morning, in fact."

Aragorn's eyebrows rose despite himself. "How in Valar's name did you manage to achieve that?"

Legolas smiled, his teeth gleaming white in the dark. "I asked them how old they thought Gandalf was."

From below them came a muffled curse and some grumblings which neither man nor elf prince cared to decipher.

Aragorn could not help the smile that came to his face in response, even as he despaired of his friend. "You are far too clever for your own good," he stated. "But I swear by all that I am, _mellon nin_, I will find out someday."

Legolas just grinned, and, moving to a perch even nearer to the stars, was soon lost to the realm of elvish dreams.

--

**Thanks for reading everyone, and I'd love to hear what you thought of it!**


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